Futile Vengeance
by DualKatanas
Summary: Oneshot semi-sequel to Blood and Steel. The Oblivion Crisis is over, but for Gorgoth gro-Kharz, there are still battles to be fought. Though there is nothing to gain and everything to lose in his pointless quest, his desire for vengeance can no longer be ignored.


**A/N: It's been a year and a half since I finished _Blood and Steel_. A year and a half is a long time to take to write a oneshot of less than 10,000 words, but writer's block is... hard to get around when it's persistent. Anyhow, this oneshot is simply to tie up a few loose ends before I get on with my Oblivion Dark Brotherhood fic. Many thanks to Adamusa for proofreading it.**

**Note that it's highly recommended that you read _Blood and Steel_ before reading this or you'll have no clue as to what's going on, but then, BaS is over 580,000 words long and the early chapters are of poor quality. But anyhow, if you do read this, don't forget to leave a review; opinions are always valued and constructive criticism is valued even more._  
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><p><strong>Futile Vengeance<strong>

Burguk gro-Dumag was feeling nervous as he walked through the corridors of the Palace of Orsinium, occasionally thumbing the head of the axe at his belt as though to make sure it was still there. He shouldn't feel nervous; he was young, only twenty-two, but he was a skilled warrior who'd fought well in the Oblivion Crisis only four months previously. But there was tension in the Palace; even more than the usual tension provided by the arguments between the King and his brother, each accusing the other of being a vile heretic. Rumblings of discontent of that kind had been near-constant ever since the King had introduced the worship of Trinimac, but this was different. Two of the most powerful Orcish Lords of Orsinium would soon be killing each other. Burguk, a mere Palace Guard, would rather let it all pass by him without getting involved. Instead, he had been acting as messenger between the two ever since Lord Gorgoth had appeared in the city of Orsinium and made his intentions clear two days ago.

The sun had only been visible over the eastern walls for a few minutes, but the Palace, as usual, was already a hive of activity. Servants ducked out of his way as he strode along the corridors, and other guards nodded to him in passing. The barracks was alive with rumours, but he had no time to stop and talk now. He continued on, walking quickly towards the Guest Wing where Lord Gorgoth had his chambers. They were stark and minimalistic, as was most of the Palace; many ambassadors had complained of the cold and the lack of comforts in the past, only to be reminded that this was Orsinium, home of the Orcs, a race that did not care for weakness.

He entered the main corridor of the Guest Wing. The chambers assigned to the Lord of Manruga were instantly recognisable due to the Orsimer in full battle armour standing guard outside them. Krognak gro-Durak was tall and broad for an Orc, towering over most of the passing servants. His face was less grim than the average warrior's; he had his fair share of scars and his yellow eyes could be very penetrating, but his wide mouth was almost always turned upwards in a grin, and his laugh could be heard several corridors away. A greatsword almost as tall as he was was strapped to his back, and his dark plate armour was smooth and rounded. He seemed to be at his ease, leaning back against the wall next to the door he was guarding, but Burguk knew that any Bloodguard worthy of the name could immediately spring from rest to a combat stance with weapon drawn at the slightest hint of danger.

As the Palace Guard walked up, the Bloodguard pushed himself away from the wall, folding his arms and greeting Burguk with a nod and a smile. "You're bringing his message?" he asked.

"Yes. I take it Lord Gorgoth is awake?"

Krognak's grin grew slightly wider. "When isn't he?" He turned to the heavy oaken door. "Wait here." The Bloodguard pushed the door open and ducked through, pushing it shut behind him.

It wasn't long before he re-emerged, holding the door open behind him. "Head on in." Burguk nodded in gratitude and brushed past him.

The light of the rising sun shone through three tall windows on the far side of the antechamber, bathing the sparsely furnished room in the cold light of day. Bare stone walls were adorned only by murals depicting Orcs in glorious battle, and the carpet was thin and basic, doing little to absorb the chill of the stone floor. A vast, unlit fireplace took up most of one wall, around which most of the large chairs were arranged. One of those chairs was occupied by a Breton sharpening a shortsword, but it was the Orsimer standing in front of the hearth that drew Burguk's gaze.

Gorgoth gro-Kharz, Lord of Manruga, the Steel Fist, the Hero of Kvatch and the Saviour of Bruma, filled the room both with his sheer presence and his physical size. He was one of the largest Orcs in Orsinium, standing seven feet tall but so wide he almost appeared stocky. Even in the heart of Orcish power he was fully clad as though for battle, missing only his helmet. The dark grey plate of his battle armour was shaped in a series of folded lines and jagged edges to make him appear even taller and a terrifying sight to behold on the battlefield. Underneath his thick plate would be reinforced chainmail, and under that would be boiled leather; even with much of the weight well-distributed, it would be tiring to wear for days on end, but the warlord was known for never showing any signs of weakness.

Burguk's eyes briefly met Gorgoth's, and he quickly made his bow. "Lord Gorgoth, I bring word from Lord Gornakh."

The warrior-shaman's gauntleted hand rose to tap his canine as he studied the messenger. Burguk straightened his back and looked straight ahead into the older Orc's chest; the Lord of Manruga's gaze was not an easy thing to meet. His eyes were yellow chips of ice that held wisdom beyond his twenty-nine years, set in a hard, determined face. He had a square jaw and thick cheekbones, reminiscent of his father. Silky black hair was pulled back into two war braids that hung to his shoulder blades; previously they had hung below his waist, but he had been defeated in battle whilst in Cyrodiil, an event that he had never elaborated on. "What is his message?" asked the warlord eventually.

"Lord Gornakh will meet you in battle an hour after noon today, in the training area behind the smaller barracks." He knew the exact words by heart; he had recited them to himself in his head enough times on the walk between chambers. "Both he and you will have the same equipment; steel chainmail over boiled leather. No plate armour. The weapons will be steel battleaxes with no enchantments, with steel daggers – also without enchantments – as backup weapons. There will be no use of any magic or enchantments at any time. No potions will be used. And the fight will be to the death." Lord Gornakh had been reluctant to confirm that last point, but he'd have known that his son would accept nothing else. "The King will be in attendance, along with his son and a few others, but the Palace grounds will be sealed to the public for the duration."

Gorgoth nodded, turning away and walking towards the windows, folding his arms and gazing out over the city of the Orcs. "Chainmail and battleaxes," he mused. "He wants it to be quick, then. And the sooner it is over, the better." He turned back to look at Burguk. "Tell Lord Gornakh I accept. By the end of the day, one of us will be dead."

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><p>The Lord of Manruga watched silently as the door swung closed behind Burguk and Krognak, his mind already working out plans for the coming battle. His companion, however, was not so silent, leaping up from her chair and looking between him and the door. "Chainmail and battleaxes?" she repeated, frowning as she sheathed her shortsword. "Doesn't sound like what I'd imagined."<p>

At first glance, Callia Petit seemed like an odd companion to the massive warlord. She was average of height and build for a Breton and thus dwarfed by the surroundings that had been built for Orcs. The sun had darkened her skin and what little spare flesh she'd had was now wiry muscle thanks to the intense training she'd devoted herself to since leaving the Blades. Her dark brown hair was gathered in a loose ponytail that reached halfway down her back, and the grey eyes that stared out of her rounded face were as hard as ever. It was not a face that smiled often.

"Despite everything, my father loves me. I am his only son." Gorgoth turned back to the window, staring out across Orsinium. "We are both highly skilled, experienced warriors, and our favoured style of fighting is very similar; we prefer to crush with heavy maces while allowing our heavy armour to protect us. To face each other like that might well take hours, and he will not want to draw it out. Lighter armour with the more penetrating battleaxe will ensure it is over swiftly; he does not want to cause undue suffering."

She snorted. "Sounds like you almost expect him to win."

"He is better then me." He shrugged. "You know how I fight, Callia. I have considerable skill, but mainly I rely on my armour's protection while using my strength to crush my weaker enemies. He is the same way, but he is bigger and stronger than I am, with more experience. On an even battlefield without magic, he has the advantage. I only won last time because Blood King betrayed him." He turned, leaning back against the wall. "Anything can happen on the battlefield, of course. But do not assume that I will beat him."

The Breton glared up at him, gripping the hilt of her shortsword. "You_ have_ to win," she snarled. "It's not just _your_ revenge you're fighting for." Anger and hatred were by far the most prevalent of her emotions, particularly now that they were in the heart of Orsinium.

Gorgoth ignored her, moving over to the fireplace. "Bring Krognak inside." Giving orders and expecting them to be obeyed rapidly was now second nature to him after spending four months alternately restoring the fortunes of Manruga and whipping the Cyrodiil Fighters Guild back into shape. Callia was far from a humble servant, but at least she did what she was told this time, muttering several Breton curses under her breath as she walked to the door. The warlord took a thick sheet of parchment from the mantelpiece and studied it, not turning until he heard the door shut behind his Bloodguard.

The contrast between his two companions could hardly be sharper. Krognak was massive in both size and personality, and even now he wore his habitual grin. The greatsword strapped to his back was nearly a foot longer than the Breton standing next to him, who appeared to have diminished slightly since leaving the Blades and Cyrodiil behind her. Her face was more gaunt, her cheekbones more pronounced, and the leather armour stretched tightly over her slim frame emphasised just how out of place she appeared in the palace of King Gortwog. Her eyes were often full of hatred, and he'd been careful to keep her well away from his father, in case she made a suicidal attempt at avenging her mother prematurely.

"Yesterday, Lords Sharn gra-Murob and Dumag gro-Lurog verified my intentions for what should happen in case I die. We do not have your overcomplicated 'last will and testaments' here in Orsinium, Callia, merely what is important." The Breton snorted but said nothing. "I have named my cousin Gramaz as my heir to Manruga. He is a good, strong Orc and the experience of ruling would be good for when he ascends the throne. Modryn Oreyn insists he never wants to be Guildmaster, so I have named Azzan of Anvil my successor to the Cyrodiil Fighters Guild."

"Not like you to be dealing with the 'if' of 'if you lose', Gorgoth," remarked Krognak, managing not to mangle the words too much. He'd made fast progress with his Common Cyrodilic after realising it was a lot easier if Gorgoth could talk to both him and Callia at once without repeating himself in a different language.

"Would you rather everything I have built to be lost to chaos and disorder after I die?" The warlord snorted. "Most of my personal fortune I donate to the state, but I have laid some aside for you, Krognak, and my house here in the city if you want it. I have also recast the spells on the skeletons and Yagorz; they will treat you as their master in the event of my death."

The Bloodguard made a dismissive gesture. "I'd likely spend most of your money getting drunk mourning you," he muttered.

"As for you, Callia, you will receive ten thousand drakes and a letter of recommendation that will get you into any of the Cyrodilic Fighters Guildhalls." She blinked in surprise, then frowned. He raised a hand to forestall the inevitable protest. "You _will_ accept it, though I doubt you would ever make use of it, given that whatever I say will not stop you attempting to kill my father should I fail. He could brush you aside within seconds, but you would grab the forlorn hope nonetheless."

She clenched her fists so hard that they trembled. "You-" The ex-Blade grimaced before unclenching her fists. "I will _never_ understand you, Gorgoth. You know I hate you, I've tried to kill you in the past, and yet you keep trusting me and even rewarding me. _Why_?"

"Because I know exactly where you stand. That is more than I can say for many. And you understand me better than most people ever will. Even more, in some ways, than Krognak." The Bloodguard grunted but nodded. "But I will not dwell on the future any more than I have to. The time is for focusing on the present." He thrust the parchment towards Krognak. "Keep this safe. Lord Sharn will see to it that my wishes are carried out should I fall."

Callia raised an eyebrow as she watched Krognak tuck the parchment into his gauntlet. "Shouldn't that be _Lady_ Sharn?"

"Why?" Gorgoth snorted and walked over to the windows, folding his arms as he looked out at the surrounding mountains. "Because she is a womer? We are not Bretons. Unless they are pregnant, we do not treat our womer any differently from our mer. Why would we?" He shrugged. "The strong will rise to greatness whether they be male or female." He turned to regard the Breton out of the corner of his eye. "You translate it as 'King' or 'Queen' depending on gender, but in fact we Orcs only have one word for the title of our ruler, because we would need no other." His gaze returned to the city, the heart of a nation built from the strength of the Orsimer. "And you wonder why I say all other races are inferior to the Orc."

She opened and closed her mouth several times trying to think up an answer, eventually being pre-empted by Krognak tapping her on the head. "You're not likely to win this argument, little one," said the Bloodguard, grinning at her. "Or _any_ argument with him, for that matter. Now leave him some time to prepare. He's only got a few hours before the most important fight of his life."

"More important than fighting Mankar Camoran or Mehrunes Dagon?" She rolled her eyes as she slid back into one of the chairs.

"I said _his_ life, not everyone else's." Krognak chuckled as he walked towards the door, preparing to resume his guard duties, only for it to swing open before he got there. Lord Gornakh gro-Nagorm of Wrothgaria strode in as though he owned the place, fully armoured for battle. He was followed swiftly by two of his Bloodguards, Gulak gro-Kharag and Mogakh gra-Murz, who slammed the door shut behind them.

Gorgoth turned slowly to regard his father, who stopped a bare foot away from his son. Gornakh overtopped him by two inches and looked just as formidable in his spiked battle plate. The hard lines of his face were twisted into a frown, his thick eyebrows drawn down and his yellow eyes narrowed. "No guard at your door, son?" he thundered, folding his arms. "I took the luxury of leaving Ushnar out there to ensure we would not be interrupted." Behind him, Gorgoth could see Krognak and Gulak glaring at each other, their weapon hands twitching.

"Any business we have will be concluded on the-" The Lord of Manruga was cut off by Callia leaping to her feet, her hands wrapped around the hilt of her sword, staring at Gornakh with an expression of pure hate distorting her face. The Lord of Wrothgaria flicked his eyes towards her briefly.

"Gulak, restrain this mewling Breton so we can have our discussion in peace." Gulak moved to obey only to find his path blocked by Krognak. Callia tried to wrench her blade out of her scabbard. Gorgoth saved her from her own foolishness by seizing her wrist.

"Calm yourselves, all of you, before I throw you out of the windows," he growled. "Callia, stop acting the fool. Krognak, keep your steel sheathed. Gornakh, if you are here only to antagonise, get out."

His father snorted. "Really, Gorgoth, I thought you chose better hangers-on than her." He barked a command over his shoulder. "Gulak, get out. Mogakh and my son's honour will protect me." The scarred warrior hesitated, then spat and left. Krognak glared at his retreating back and wiped his snarl from his face with visible effort before turning to watch Mogakh like a hawk, his hand never far from his weapon.

Gorgoth tightened his grasp around Callia's wrist, making her wince and finally stop snarling at his father to instead glare at him. "Control yourself," he muttered, giving her a glance that promised severe retribution if she disobeyed before looking Gornakh in the eye. "What do you want? You should know by now that I will not change my mind."

The Lord of Wrothgaria ignored the question and instead studied Callia, his hand raising to tap one of his prominent canines. "I am interested, Gorgoth," he said, speaking in Common. "Where did you find her, and why bring her along? Surely a pathetic Breton who hates me will be of no use to you, and they are hardly uncommon."

"She is a victim of one of your raids in Sharoth," responded the warrior-shaman, cutting off his companion's own furious response. "I raped her mother to death and burned down half her village. She initially held me responsible, but as it was _you_ who ordered the attacks and I had no choice but to obey..." He shook his head. "But now, Gornakh, you will answer _my_ question."

A heavy sigh escaped his father's lips as he looked his son in the eye. "I've told you many times that I'm proud of you. I love you as my son, and you yourself admit that the training I gave you prepared you for your life and your destiny." Gorgoth was careful to keep his face still; he and indeed all of Tamriel was indebted to the brutal training that Gornakh had put him through. "You are are a fine Lord of Orsinium, an asset to our nation, and my son. I do _not_ want to kill you. Reconsider, if not for me, for the good of Orsinium."

Gorgoth shoved Callia away and took a step closer to his father, putting their faces mere inches apart. "No."

"You-" Gornakh bit off his instinctive response and grimaced. "One of us will die, Gorgoth. You know who we are. We are two powerful Lords of Orsinium, both more than competent, and..." He sighed. "...and we are the last two followers of Malacath in this heretical court. I know you hate me, son, but this is more than about your vengeance. Think of Orsinium!"

"I cannot turn aside. I do not have a choice, because you made it for me nineteen years ago."

"It was the only way!" exploded Gornakh, throwing up his arms and turning to pace in the limited area he had available. "I _told_ you, Gorgoth, I told you time and again that I couldn't prepare you for your role in life if you were raised by a poverty-stricken prostitute, and she wasn't going to give you up while she still drew breath!"

"Your minions raped and tortured to death the mother who loved an expensive, unwanted burden with her whole heart," growled Gorgoth. "For that, you will die. My vengeance will gain me nothing, true, it will not bring her back to life, and it will not bring me peace. _But you have to die_."

"Malacath's blood, Gorgoth!" The Lord of Wrothgaria raised his hands, clenching them as though wanting to strangle his son there and then. "Don't make me do this. Don't force a father to kill his only son."

Gorgoth's lips twitched as he forced back a snarl. "We will fight. And one of us will die. It is how it has to be."

"_Please_." The word and the emotion behind it was so surprising that Gorgoth blinked. "I don't want to fight you, not you. Anyone but you. Please don't force me into this." Gornakh's normally hard eyes were wide, pleading with him, his hands outstretched. It was the closest a proud Orc could ever get to begging.

For half a second, the Lord of Manruga hesitated. Then he slowly shook his head. He tried to never feel regret. This would be one of the times when he failed. "I have no choice," he said. "It is not about whether I want to or not. It is about what I _have_ to do. What I _must_ do." He turned his back on his father, walking to the window and looking out. His face probably betrayed none of his inner turmoil, but it was best not to take chances.

Gornakh's heavy breathing was the only sound for a few moments, before he turned and walked from his son's chambers without another word. Even as the door slammed behind him, Gorgoth did not move. Silence returned to the chambers as he stared out across the city that would soon be deprived of one of its most powerful servants. There was a grunt as Callia threw herself down in one of the chairs and a clinking of armour as Krognak took up position next to the door. Gorgoth's hands slowly clenched into fists.

"I have hated him for most of my life," he growled, talking half to himself. "The fury I felt ever since my childhood has been my driving force, my purpose. Every waking moment since then has been devoted to eventually killing him. I have lived for the sole purpose of vengeance for so long, and yet..." He sighed. "Truly, I do not want to kill him. He is a fine warrior, a good lord, a proud follower of the ways of Malacath. And he is my father, the Orc who shaped my path, who trained me and taught me what I needed. And yet, he must die."

"I hope you're not wavering," muttered Callia as she walked up to stand beside him.

"I do not waver. And I am not prone to moments of idiocy, unlike some people." He turned to glare down at her. "If you had actually succeeded in baring your steel, he would have killed you in a heartbeat. And neither me nor Krognak would have stopped him."

"You can hardly blame me. This is the first time I've met the Orc responsible for the death of my mother and-"

"And I recall you tried to kill _me_ quite soon after you met me at Cloud Ruler Temple. Remembering how that turned out should have taught you to check your fury and actually think."

The Breton bit down on her lower lip, presumably to stop another stupid outburst, and scowled at the view from the window. Abruptly she turned and stomped into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Gorgoth was thankful for the removal of her distraction. He had enough to think about already.

Gornakh was right, of course. If Kharz gra-Shagren had raised her son, Tamriel would have been doomed. It had been his father's brutally effective training that had prepared him for the challenges of his destiny. But it had only been made possible by his mother's murder. The wisest decision in Gornakh's life would also end up killing him. "Irony, Krognak," he sighed, his voice full of bitterness. "It's almost enough to make me laugh."

"I don't think I've _ever_ heard you laugh. Except bitterly."

"Of course. Laughter is gone from my life." He slowly turned from the window to look his Bloodguard in the eye. "May you find much laughter and happiness in your life, Krognak, for there will be none for me in mine."

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><p>It had been a long time since Gorgoth had last felt a sense of nervous anticipation churning in his gut; there wasn't much that made him anxious and his discipline meant what little he felt rarely affected him. But as he made his way down to the smaller barracks with Krognak and Callia in tow, his stomach felt almost as bad as it did when his old wound decided to trouble him. Most of the palace's servants and guards knew not to trouble him, and Krognak kept away the few who were stupid enough to try and talk to him.<p>

He shoved open the doors to the barracks, waving the occupying soldiers back to their ease, and continued through to the barracks sergeant's quarters that had been made available for him. It was a small, dimly-lit chamber normally almost filled by the desk that had been roughly shoved into a corner. The armour and weapon that had been chosen for him lay against the wall opposite the small window that was the sole source of light. Standing in the sun's rays was Kharag gro-Kurz, Captain of King Gortwog's Bloodguard and one of the few mer Gorgoth felt he could trust even slightly. His battered face was lined with age and marked by battle, but his back was still straight despite the weight of his scarred battle armour. His familiar nod of greeting was lacking in any deference. "Lord Gorgoth. Krognak." His eyes briefly flicked over Callia before dismissing her as insignificant.

Gorgoth returned the nod. "Kharag." He motioned to Krognak, who shut the door behind them. "Everything is ready?"

"Everything. The only thing left is for you to walk out there in ten minutes. There won't be much of an audience. The King wants this unpleasantness dealt with as quickly and quietly as possible." Kharag grimaced. "As do I. None of us want to see two of our best Orcs killing each other, except for some of the more hardline devotees of Trinimac." Another grimace; Kharag himself still followed the old ways of Malacath despite the King's heresy.

"Nor do I, yet it has to happen." He started stripping off the light furs he was wearing; he'd left his armour back in his chambers. "I take it the axe is sharp?"

"Sharpened them both myself, yours and his. They're the same weight and length. Your armour isn't tailored for you personally, but it'll fit well."

"Good." Gorgoth motioned for Krognak and Callia to start armouring him; he made sure he was able to quickly put on even his full plate by himself in emergencies, but these days he normally had people on hand to do it for him. "Do you know who Gornakh has named as his heir to Wrothgaria?"

Kharag smirked. "Gramaz. Whoever dies today, he inherits one of the more powerful fiefs." The Bloodguard shook his head. "Too bad you wouldn't let Gornakh leave you Wrothgaria as well. You're his only son, after all."

"The King would never allow it, for good reason. With both Manruga and Wrothgaria I'd rule nearly a third of Orsinium. It wouldn't take much to provoke the heretics to try something, and then we'd be fighting amongst ourselves while the Bretons sit and watch and laugh." Callia finished tightening the straps on his leather vest while Krognak carefully fitted his greaves.

A sigh escaped from the old Orc's lips as he turned to stare out the window. "They're getting bolder," he growled. "What's worse, the Redguards are mounting raids into the Dragontails. Our cousins there are suffering, and the Potentate is far too busy struggling to run an Empire without an Emperor to care about either them or some place in High Rock that doesn't even have provincial status." He shook his head. "I know the King's worried about it, and if the King's worried, I'm worried. If Martin had survived..."

"Martin didn't survive. He was the true hero of the Oblivion Crisis, not me, but the fact remains he didn't survive. Keep focusing on those facts and not what-ifs. I don't need to tell you that, Kharag." He glared sideways at Callia as she overtightened a vambrace. She glared back at him before correcting her mistake; even four months later, she was still sore about the Emperor's death. He spread his arms to let Krognak put on his chainmail hauberk. "Ocato is no fool. He is overworked, but not much escapes his notice. He'll enforce the peace here with the Legion if need be."

"Probably something to do with the thousands of Orcs serving in those same Legions." Kharag turned back to him. "But politics bore me. This fight, on the other hand... much as I hate to see one of you die, the fight itself will be well worth watching." The Bloodguard smiled toothily.

"It is best that you enjoy it. I will not." Gorgoth clenched and unclenched his fists in his gauntlets before taking his helmet from Krognak; it wasn't full-face but it did have nose- and cheekguards, as well as a divided aventail that would let his war braids flow freely. He shrugged a few times and turned full circle, getting a feel for the armour; it wasn't too different from the chainmail he normally wore under his plate. Most Imperials would consider it heavy armour, but he would feel distinctly vulnerable on a battlefield. "Axe."

The battleaxe was placed in his right hand. The oak haft was six feet long, topped with two heavy crescent blades, designed to punch through plate armour. It was a foot longer than the long maces and warhammers that he preferred, but also slightly lighter; he could use it in one hand easily enough, but could achieve better balance using both hands. Of course, he'd trained extensively in switching from stance to stance in an instant, but his father was just as skilled, with much more experience. Tucking his helmet into the crook of his elbow, he slammed the axe's steel pommel into the ground. "I stand ready," he growled, ignoring the churning in his gut.

"Then let's get this over with." Kharag walked past him and threw the door open, striding out into the barracks. Gorgoth followed without hesitation. He could feel the gaze of the soldiers as he walked towards the doors at the far end; most of them would have fought for his father in various wars. There was open hatred on a few of the faces; he didn't blame them.

"Keep an eye on Callia," he told Krognak in Orcish. "If Gornakh kills me she's likely to do something stupid."

His Bloodguard snorted but nodded, his habitual smile entirely absent. The Breton in question was walking stiffly at his side, her eyes fixed on Gorgoth. "Make sure you win," she grated.

"Win? You think this is about winning or losing?" Gorgoth shook his head, his voice bitter. "He won nineteen years ago when he murdered my mother. There is nothing to _win_ here except our futile vengeance." He turned away from her as Kharag shoved open the doors leading out to the training area.

The hot summer sun beat down on them from a cloudless sky as they strode out onto the hard-packed dirt. The arena chosen by Gornakh was a sizeable square squeezed between two barracks, the palace and the wall that surrounded the compound; more than big enough for their purposes, but small enough to discourage a crowd. Squinting slightly until his eyes had adjusted to the brightness, Gorgoth could make out no more than a dozen Orcs watching; a handful of higher-ranking soldiers, a shaman to heal the victor, a few Lords and some Bloodguards. King Gortwog was bareheaded, wearing a grim expression as he stood back near the wall with his arms folded. His son Gramaz was beside him, leaning against the wall and rubbing his chin.

Gorgoth's gaze passed over all of them before settling on the Orc just emerging from the barracks on the opposite side of the square. Gornakh, clad in identical chainmail and holding an identical battleaxe, paused to look around before meeting his son's eyes. His shoulders appeared to slump slightly as he exhaled before slowly walking forward, motioning for his Bloodguards to stay behind. Gorgoth waved Krognak and Callia back and strode forward to meet him.

They met in the centre of the square, stopping when they were still several feet apart. Gorgoth found himself noting just how alike he and his father looked; apart from the slight height difference and the length of their war braids, when in identical armour they could barely be told apart. Gornakh, he realised, had the look of a mer who had finally come to terms with the inevitable. Forcing down a surge of conflicting emotions, Gorgoth stepped forward and threw aside his helmet. "I thank Malacath that I will be able to give you a good death," he said, his deep voice reverberating around the arena. "The good death that you deserve."

The ghost of a smile plucked at Gornakh's lips as he casually tossed his helmet back over his shoulder. "I spent many years teaching you how to fight well," he replied. "But now we will see if you ever learnt how to _die_ well." His expression grew sad as he hefted his axe. "Whatever happens, my son, I am proud of you. Now come and break my heart." He settled into a defensive battle stance.

_A heart of steel cannot break. Your gift to me, father._ Gorgoth stepped forward, focusing on his opponent, focusing on the crunch of the dirt under his boots, focusing on the axe grasped in his hands. He was a weapon; weapons had no need for emotion. He charged forward.

His first attack was a diagonal swing upwards from the hip, aiming to cleave open his father's ribcage. Gornakh pivoted backwards so the blade merely scraped across his chest before darting forward and ramming his pommel into Gorgoth's abdomen. Snatching his opponent's haft, the warrior-shaman swung one-handed towards his head. The Lord of Wrothgaria ducked and rushed forward, ramming his shoulder into his son's chest, tearing his axe free and immediately thrusting at the throat. Gorgoth countered, blocking with his haft and slamming his foot into his father's thigh.

Gornakh stepped back to recover and found himself under relentless assault, his son's fast, furious attacks forcing him back across the arena. For the first time in years, Gorgoth felt the compulsion to give in to his berserker rage and let the bloodlust take him, but stifled his primal desires; against a foe as skilled as his father, he needed his mind rather than strength and stamina. He kept advancing, battering at Gornakh's stubborn defence and driving him back, but ever wary for the counter that he knew would come.

It came suddenly; the older Orc shifted to a one-handed grip halfway up the axe and stepped forward rather than back, slashing at Gorgoth's thigh before his son had a chance to dodge. The sharp blade parted the chainmail, leather and skin, sending blood flowing down the Orsimer's leg. Rather than step back to recover, Gorgoth lashed out with his wounded leg, kicking at his opponent's weapon while swinging towards his father's head. Gornakh threw himself sideways into a roll, leaping back to his feet with a gash across his ear.

Ignoring the throbbing pain from his leg – the cut wasn't deep enough to be dangerous – Gorgoth started a slow overarm attack that changed mid-swing into a fast sideways slash, but Gornakh was wise to it and parried, countering with his own overarm swing that scraped across the front of his son's hauberk. The warrior-shaman bulled forward, dropping his shoulder to ram into his father's chest, following up with a swing towards the armpit. Gornakh jerked back quickly enough to avoid a debilitating wound, getting away with a light cut across his upper torso.

Gorgoth fell back, limping and favouring his wounded leg. His father snorted. "I know you can ignore a scratch like that. Try another trick." He moved forward, swinging his axe lazily, trying to tempt his son. The warrior-shaman started circling cautiously, ignoring the sweat cascading down his back, mingling with the blood pooling in his boot. "Come on, Gorgoth. Let's end this." Gornakh bared his teeth in a savage grin.

The Lord of Manruga charged, throwing aside all caution and hammering at the Orc he'd hated for nearly two decades. Gornakh weathered the storm and struck back, forcing his son onto his weakened leg and swinging at him with such force that Gorgoth was knocked off his feet, only his reflexes saving him from anything worse than a deep cut across his lower ribcage. Rather than immediately scrambling to his feet, he twisted round and swung his legs at his opponent, almost tripping him. The warrior-shaman rose to a crouch before launching himself at his father, slicing upwards towards his head. Gornakh leaned backwards, readying a counter, but he'd misjudged the angle of attack and the axe head smashed upwards through his jaw, tearing through his face and leaving a deep gash from chin to eye.

Taking a step back to regain his balance, Gornakh roared wordlessly as he swung one-handed. They were too close for Gorgoth to dodge quickly enough and the blade sliced open his cheek from ear to nose. Ignoring the pain, he pushed forward, smashing his haft into his father's chest before ramming his forehead into his face. The Lord of Wrothgaria grunted and shoved his son backwards, swinging his weapon in a wide arc to preclude further attack. Gorgoth fell back, spitting out some of the blood that had trickled into his mouth.

"Perhaps I will keep this scar as a reminder of you," growled Gornakh, his snarl making his ruined face look even more horrific. Gorgoth kept his distance; his own wounds were more serious, though less disfiguring. Something was troubling him; something wasn't right, and yet he had no time to dwell on what it was. He forced himself to focus as his father moved to attack, falling back slowly as he parried and blocked, looking for any signs of overextension. There were none; his opponent was far too experienced and disciplined to let anger get the better of him.

He dropped to a crouch and tried to chop at his father's knees, but Gornakh moved within his reach and kicked him in the chest, following up by smashing the end of his haft into Gorgoth's head. The warrior-shaman grunted and rolled sideways, staggering as he rose to his feet and turning just in time to parry another attack. In the several seconds it took for his head to clear, Gornakh had given him another cut across his chest. Taking a few steps backwards, Gorgoth grabbed the haft of his opponent's weapon to stop a sideways slash dead in its tracks; ignoring the jarring that shook most of his body, he cut downwards towards his father's chest. The Lord of Wrothgaria jerked to the side, but not quickly enough to avoid a gash in his collarbone.

Wrenching his axe free of his son's grasp, Gornakh barely managed to avoid two more quick attacks, lurching backwards so quickly he almost overbalanced. Gorgoth surged forward, preparing to swing upwards towards the groin, but his father recovered too quickly and stepped forward, kicking aside his son's axe and slashing through his left thigh, adding a much deeper cut just under the one already there. The Lord of Wrothgaria used his momentum to twirl his axe and slam the pommel into his foe's ribs. Gorgoth's wounded leg collapsed under him, sending him to his knees.

Gornakh snarled wordlessly as he lifted his axe above his head and swung down, aiming to cleave his son's head in two. Gorgoth looked up and met his eyes. Ignoring the throbbing agony of his leg, ignoring the axe descending on him from above, he planted his feet and surged upwards, inside his father's reach. Roaring in pain and rage, he swung his axe upwards with all the strength he had in his body. His opponent was far too close to even think about dodging; as his own attack missed completely, Gorgoth's axe tore through his abdomen, chopping through steel and flesh and bone until the blade emerged from his back.

Bracing his shoulder against Gornakh's chest, the Lord of Manruga ripped his weapon free, sending his father lurching back, an expression of shock etched onto his ruined face as he looked down at the wound that stretched almost all the way across his torso. Some of his entrails were wrapped around the axe head. His mouth moved as he tried to speak. Gorgoth cut him off as he swung again, burying his axe in the middle of his chest and leaving it there as Gornakh gro-Nagorm, Lord of Wrothgaria, the Bloody Reaver, the Iron Fist of Orsinium, collapsed in a bloody heap.

Gorgoth stumbled forward, falling to his knees next to his dying father. The Orsimer's breathing was ragged as he squinted up at his killer. "Looks like... I taught you well..." he rasped, coughing up blood as he laughed.

"You did." The warrior-shaman reached under Gornakh's shoulders and gently lifted his upper body, holding him close.

"Haagh... you made me... proud, Gorgoth. I always... loved you." He paused to spit up blood. His eyes were losing focus. "You got your... revenge. Now move... on. Make this... make this _worth it_." One last convulsion shook him before his body went limp, his head falling back to stare at the sky with sightless eyes.

A shadow fell across them. The warrior-shaman looked up to see King Gortwog falling to his knees beside his dead brother, his face distorted with grief. He wrapped his arms around the dead Orc's chest, taking him from Gorgoth, an unsteady hand sliding his brother's eyes shut. "I always knew it would end like this," he said, exhaling shakily. He looked up, meeting his nephew's eyes. "He..." The King trailed off, shaking his head. "Just go."

The Lord of Manruga needed no further encouragement. He stood, unsteady on his wounded leg. Waving away the shaman who was offering healing, he turned and limped towards the barracks he'd come from, ignoring the fatigue and pain that was becoming increasingly evident now that the adrenaline of battle was wearing off. Krognak was at his side almost immediately, wordlessly offering an arm of support and lowering it when his lord shook his head. Callia was staring at Gornakh's corpse, unaware of anything else until Krognak tapped her on the head and motioned for her to follow.

They were undisturbed on the brisk march back to Gorgoth's quarters despite the bloody footprints the warrior-shaman was leaving behind. Anyone who wanted to talk to him was roughly shoved out of the way by his Bloodguard, though most he passed merely gave him looks of stony dislike. Upon reaching his quarters he kicked open the door and growled for both of them to join him, slamming it shut behind them and locking it with magic. Pausing for a second, he exhaled slowly before walking over to the fireplace, stopping and staring into the smouldering embers. Blood from the cut across his cheek trickled over his lips.

"You should heal yourself, brother," advised Krognak, a hint of caution in his voice.

"They are not fatal. I will let them heal naturally. The scars will remind me of my father."

Callia threw herself down into one of the chairs. "He's dead. He's _finally_ dead." Gorgoth had his back to her, but he could tell she was smiling.

"Damn it, woman, show some respect," responded Krognak. "Gornakh was a good, strong Orc, a worthy Lord, and a great asset to Orsinium. It's a sad day for all of us."

She snorted. "Speak for yourself, Krognak. He was responsible for the murder of my mother and half my village. He's been a shadow hanging over me for all my adult life. Now he's finally gone..."

"Well, good for _you_. Now shut up and give Gorgoth some peace."

"I really will never understand you Orcs. He loathed him more than I did, and for longer, and yet..."

"You're right. You never _will_ understand us. You're-"

"He let me win," muttered Gorgoth, breaking into a conversation that he had been completely ignoring.

"What?" asked Callia, frowning as she rose from her seat. "I didn't hear-"

"_He let me win_," repeated Gorgoth, forcing each word out through gritted teeth as he slammed his fist into the wall. He spun to face them. "I know how good he was. And I know he was telling the whole truth earlier. He didn't want to kill me. In the battle, he could have had me twice. This-" he pointed to the cut across his lower ribs "-should have disembowelled me. But he didn't put his full force into it. And the second cut on my leg could have been much deeper. That last attack of his left him wide open for my counter. He _let me win!_"

"But... surely you _wanted_ him dead?" Callia stepped back as he turned to her, shocked by the sheer rage contorting his face.

"I have wanted him dead since I was a child. I despised him, loathed the passing of every day in which he still drew breath. But I also _respected_ him, as a great Orc, and a true warrior of Malacath. For that, I knew I would give him a good death, an honourable death fit for one of Orsinium's heroes. And he denied me even _that!_" His fists clenched and unclenched as he tried to control his anger. "He knew I would know, even if no one else did. He deserved to die as a true Orc should, fighting his hardest, defiant to the end. Instead, he..." Gorgoth trailed off, grinding his teeth to stop his babbling. His iron self-control over his emotions was slipping, as he suspected it would.

"He did it because he thought it was the right thing," said Krognak, folding his arms and meeting his lord's furious gaze. "Think, Gorgoth; ever since he took you from your mother he's been training you, preparing you for life. And ever since you took Blood King from him, I reckon he's seen you as having... more to give than him, if you will. He knew you'd try to kill him, but he also didn't want to stop you from... fulfilling the potential he saw in you. And if that meant dying, even throwing the fight, in order to do what's best for you, rather than what's best for _him_... well, at least, that's the way I see it."

The warrior-shaman stared at his Bloodguard for a few seconds. Then he sighed, shoulders slumping, and turned back to the fireplace, dispelling the locking spell he'd placed on the door. "Get out, both of you." He waited until the door had closed behind both of them before collapsing into one of the chairs, staring down at the blood on his hands.

Krognak was right. Ever since Gornakh had torn him from his mother, he had done everything in his power to prepare his son for whatever life would throw at him. Maybe he had even realised that his son was a Hero, ultimately unbound by destiny. He had to have known that one day he would pay for the murder of Kharz gra-Shagren, that her son would never have forgiven the Orc responsible for her fate.

Gorgoth grunted as realisation dawned. "Gornakh, you..." He stood, walking to the window, looking out across Orsinium.

The quest for vengeance had consumed him, driven him for so long. He still had memories of his long, dark childhood when the desire for revenge, the white-hot rage at his mother's brutal murder was the only thing that had kept him from killing himself. Causes had come and gone; he'd freed himself from Gornakh's domination, he'd created a sellsword company and slain hundreds. He'd avenged an emperor, helped defeat a Daedra and saved Tamriel, but his lust for vengeance had always been there, dominating his life. Gorgoth was nothing without a cause worth fighting for; when immediate justice was unavailable he'd distracted himself, but eventually he would always return to doggedly pursuing his goal until finally he'd achieved the means to realise it.

Gornakh must have known. And he must also have realised how his son was wasting himself in a quest for futile vengeance. Perhaps he had some kind of foresight, a glimpse of what his son might go on to achieve in the Fourth Era. Maybe he thought that Gorgoth would be worth more to Orsinium than him. Whatever the reason, he had chosen to bring an end to his son's obsession, even at the cost of his own life. He had sacrificed himself to unchain his son from the curse of a pointless life.

Gorgoth sighed, realising the irony. His father had given his own life for a son he loved, a son who loathed him, who had wanted him dead ever since they had first met. "Thank you, father," he whispered.

A weight was gone from his shoulders. He was not at peace – he would never know peace – but now at least he could look to the future instead of being stranded in the past. A new era beckoned, an era of uncertainty, of possibility. He was Lord of Manruga and Guildmaster of the Cyrodiil Fighters Guild. There were worthy causes to fight for. And now he was free, without the spectre of his unavenged mother hanging over him. Freedom; Gornakh had denied it to him for so long, and yet it was now his final gift to his son.

His wandering gaze passed over the Iron Walls, taking in the snowcapped peaks of the Wrothgarians. Soon he would summon Krognak and make plans for his return to Manruga. Soon he would immerse himself in ruling his fief, and continue with the rebuilding of the Fighters Guild. But for now, he would take a moment to mourn the mother who had brought him into the world, and the father who had helped him survive it.

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><p><strong>AN: A note about language; both Orcish and Common Cyrodilic is spoken in this oneshot, but mentioning every time they transition would break the flow, so I'll just say that every time Gorgoth is speaking with another Orc, they're speaking Orcish unless stated, and whenever he's talking to Callia or Krognak and Callia, it's Common.**

**Anyhow, it's good to finally get this thing uploaded. I started it a week after I finished BaS but the writer's block that followed was horrendous. I don't start anything I don't intend to finish, however, and I had to clear up some of the loose ends left at the end of BaS before I could get to work on the Dark Brotherhood fic I promised (I want to write my planned Skyrim fic, really, but chronology rules all).**

**So, hopefully, that fic won't be too long in coming, but... well, you know me. I'll try not to take years this time.**

**I'll add a reminder to review; unless it's entirely pointless flaming, reviews can only help me, and even if you're an anonymous reviewer, I'll respond to your review below this ending Author's Note.**

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><p><strong>Anonymous review replies:<strong>

**Sakura's Edge: It feels like forever probably because it WAS forever. Anyhow, more questions than answers? Well, maybe they'll be answered in my DB fic... which I'm definitely doing before my Skyrim fic; chronology takes precedence, after all. The DB fic will be set just a couple of months after the end of this oneshot, in fact.**


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